The Return
by nikayh
Summary: It's three years to the date of Sherlock's death and John doesn't seem to be taking it too well. Rated M for language and for the future when it's finished.
1. Chapter 1

The smell of alcohol and cigarettes filled the living room of 221B Baker Street all day every day for almost three years now. John was not a man to fall for weakness, he was not even a man who smoked nor was he a man who consumed alcohol more than once a month. But after his best friend died this is what he turned to. He turned to drink to help him forget about his companion, he turned to cigarettes after he found a packet belonging to him and decided to try it. "What harm will it do?" he would tell himself.

He didn't socialise much anymore. Mrs. Hudson only came up every now and then, probably just to make sure he hadn't passed away. Since he started drinking he'd gotten violent - "Just like every other Watson." he remind himself - and she was afraid of him. People believed he was getting his anger out over the loss of his closest friend, John however knew otherwise. Lestrade stopped calling too. For a while after Sherlock died, John would be called in. He was the next closest thing. He wasn't as talented as Sherlock no, but he was good. Harry tried to get him off the drink. She knew what he was going through. But he wouldn't let her, calling her a hypocrite and told her off so many times that she had just decided not to call anymore. He'd hear from her every no and again, much like Mrs. Hudson, she just wanted to make sure he was alive. Mycroft called once a year. Usually around the time of Sherlock's anniversary. He too probably wanted to make sure the ex army doctor was still breathing.

And now here he was, completely intoxicated and sprawled out on the floor. A bottle of vodka in one hand, a cigarette in the other. A picture of Sherlock sat across the room on the television. The only picture Sherlock bothered to take. Apart from those in the newspaper. He said that they were a waste. "Who needs pictures to remind you of the good times? There's a reason you have a memory." he often mumble. But he said he'd take one picture by himself this time. John had memorised the picture off by heart. It was the only thing left in the living room that was any way associated with Sherlock. Everything belonging to him was put into boxes and locked in his room. The door hadn't been open for about two years.

The picture was from Christmas Day 2010. He was standing in front of the fire place, the skull on the mantelpiece just in the corner of the picture. John wanted to take it out as it drew attention, but Sherlock said to keep it. It was only a picture after all. He was wearing the purple shirt he liked wearing so much along with his simple black suit. His hair was it's usual unruly self and his smile. Oh that smile. That smile that John hated but loved so much.

John slowly raised himself from his position on the floor and crossed the room to retrieve the picture. He sighed and threw it on the ground. Up close you could see the wrinkles on the picture from the countless times it had been crumpled up but straightened out again once John had sobered up. He sat down once again, his throat sore from trying to stop the tears from coming.

"You…bastard." he groaned under his breath as though he thought someone was listening to him. "You just go an die on me. I ask you to come back but you don't." he stood up and stood staring at the smiley face Sherlock had painted on the wall. "I tell you that I need you. But you don't listen." his breathing was heavy. "You selfish prick." John punched the smiley face and slid down the wall, tears now falling from his face. Every time John got drunk - which was nearly everyday - this role played out. He gave out about Sherlock and cried to the empty room. He missed him so much, that much was obvious.

The drunken man stood up and went to the kitchen in search for drink. Anything he could get his hands on. He trashed the small kitchen for something, absolutely anything he could drink. Anything that would make the hole that was still in his heart feel numb. He hated when he was sober. He hated feeling something for Sherlock. He never felt anything for him. Why should he care for him so much? Once he realised that there was nothing in the presses he stood at the sink and splashed his face with water. He'd need to sober out at least a small bit if he was going to be served drink. But most people knew to just serve him by now. Drunk or sober. He slipped on a pair of shoes and grabbed a jacket off the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He looked like shit, he knew it, but he was only popping out for a bit, nobody would see him. He found some money in his jacket pocket and smiled to himself. Enough to buy a few cans and some vodka. Enough to keep him going for the rest of the week at least. The doctor approached to door that separated the living room with the landing, the freshness of the stair way hitting him harshly. He took a deep breath, oxygen finally filling his lungs. He felt quite light headed, he hadn't experienced so much air in quite a while and it hit him like a brick. He made his way down the stairs, the railings being his friend and helping him make his way down the stairs. He heard the door to Mrs. Hudson's shut quickly. He eyed the door. "I'm just popping out for a bit Mrs. Hudson, be back in a bit." he mumbled, his words coming out a bit slurred. Once there was no reply he rolled his eyes and walked slowly to the door. He knew it would be bright out, he knew it would hurt. Just as he reached for the door handle he heard his phone beep from inside his jacket pocet. He had gotten a message, nobody sent him messages anymore. If someone wanted him, they usually rang him. He only sent messages to one person. And that one person never replied.

He reached into his pocket with caution in case he was just imagining this noise. Once he felt the phone in his hand he removed it from his pocket, reluctant to take it out. What did they want with him anyway? John flipped the phone over in his hand before unlocking it and clicking into the message. His eyes adjusted to the screen and he carefully read the message. Once, twice, three times before letting it sink in.

**I'm back, John. **

**-SH**

He threw the phone on the ground in a fit of rage. Who was this, who would dare mess with him like that? He picked up the phone again, his hands trembling. He looked at who the sender was.

**Received: June 16****th**** 2014**

**From: Sherlock **

"**Shit," John muttered, "It's his anniversary." his breathing was heavier as he turned his attention back to the message. John couldn't believe it, wouldn't believe it. His hands trembled as he opened the door. He held it closed just before he opened it. His face was sour, he could tell. Once the door was opened he looked down to the ground. The daylight was too bright for him. He saw black shoes, simple black shoes. As he continued to examine the person from bottom to top he noticed simple black trousers, probably from suit, a purple shirt, and yes a suit jacket, matching the trousers. He noticed the person was wearing a long black jacket and a navy blue scarf. He didn't want to look at the persons face, he knew it would hurt too much. But he did and what he knew was true. It hurt, way too much. The same unruly dark brown hair and his large blue eyes. His breath was taken away. He had forgotten how beautiful he was. No wait, he wasn't beautiful. A handsome man, yes, beautiful. Well no. They weren't like that. **

**Tears started to form in the mans eyes. He suddenly felt a lot less drunk and his locked eyes with those of the world's only consulting detective. He wanted to slap him, he really did, how dare he leave him for so long. Three years to the date. He watched Sherlock as he put his phone back in his pocket. His face looked sad. John had never seen him sad, not really. He always looked happy around him. Why was he sad? He was still alive. **

"**I'm back John." Sherlock said, breaking the long silence. Tears formed in both of the men's eyes. "I'm back."**


	2. Chapter 2

John quickly reacted to his meant to be dead best friend standing in the doorway. He grabbed the much taller man by his shirt and pulled him into Baker Street, closing the door at the same time. The impression on Sherlock faced changed immediately. The tears in his eyes disappeared quickly and his face was now it's usual cocky self. He looked down at the doctor, eyeing the man up. Probably trying to deduce how he spent the last three years with out him. As it if wasn't obvious already. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes probably gave it away.

"What are you doing here Sherlock!" The army doctor said with an angry tone to his voice. "You," he shouted, stepping away from the consulting detective, "are meant to be.." John took a deep breath and turned away from Sherlock. "You're meant to be dead." he whispered more to himself than talking to his friend. He closed his eyes and lay against the wall behind him for support. The doctor took another deep breath. The silence built up between the two. John couldn't look at him. He'd been alive all this time. Yet he hadn't even told him, got in contact with him. Nothing. John hated how he felt at that moment. Why was he feeling so much betrayal? He should be happy Sherlock was back. The one person he truly cared about was back in his life and yet he felt like strangling him.

"You look like shit." Sherlock announced, breaking the silence. The consulting detective straightened up and took of his jacket before throwing it on to the staircase. The two men looked at each other. John remembered just how shit he looked before he left the living room and quickly ran his hand through his hair. Whether that was to attempt and make himself look a bit more appropriate for Sherlock or because of the awkwardness John felt between the two was unknown.

"Yes, I just woke up." John lied to Sherlock, coughing a little afterwards. John looked up at his friend as Sherlock sniffed the air around him. John furrowed his eyebrows and sighed before pushing Sherlock away from him and walking to the door. "I'm going out for a walk. I'd rather you didn't come with me." John said. He was trying to put on an act that said 'I don't care that you're back. It doesn't bother me.' But John knew that Sherlock could see through him. John knew that Sherlock knew that John was angry. Yes John had a lot of questions to ask, but that could be done once he returned. Once he cleared his head.

"How long have you been drinking?" Sherlock asked just as John was about to open the door once more. Sherlock stood at the end of the stairs, his scarf still wrapped around his neck. He looked concerned to say the least. Worried maybe. But Sherlock and emotions didn't go together. He hardly felt something for a man whom he hadn't seen in three years.

"You know what Sherlock," John began as he stood facing the front door, "I've missed that. I've missed you knowing every single thing about me from one fucking glance." The ex army doctor laughed in a sarcastic manner. "You just waltz back in here, and act as if nothing has happened in the past three years." John's voice was rising and Sherlock squinted at his friend. "How did you know I was drinking then? You could tell from my eyes or it was given away by my clothes?" John was shouting now as he turned around from the door.

"Anyone could tell John.""Not anyone. Just you."

"No. John. Anybody could tell."

The two men stared at each other for a moment before Sherlock started speaking quite slowly to John. It wasn't his usual way of stating his deductions, but he was talking to John normally. As though telling him a story.

"You smell of vodka, whiskey and cigarettes. It's just that simple. Maybe people would not have been able to deduce _what _you've been drinking, but they would be able to know that you _have_ been drinking." Sherlock paused and took one final glance before turning to head of the stairs to the living room of his home a very long time ago. It hurt Sherlock walking up these stairs again. He knew how much he hurt John but would not have ever admitted it. He turned around on his ascent up the stairs and looked just behind John.

"You don't even smoke. Nor do you drink much." Sherlock opened his mouth to continue but shook his head and walked up to the living room in which John had spent the majority of the last three years.

"Damn you Sherlock." John muttered under his breath. He always wrapped John around his little finger, made him follow him everywhere. And this was no different. John turned away from the front door and pounded up the stairs, his breathing quite heavy once he reached the top. The cigarettes were finally getting to him. The door was opened from when Sherlock entered, he knew John would follow him up.

John opened the door more very slowly to see Sherlock opening the windows to let the smell of smoke and alcohol out of the room. John never opened the curtains, let alone the windows and oxygen quickly filled the room, eliminating the horrible odours that had been building up.

"You never do housework." John said, his voice cracking as he does so. "Those three years away, they must have done something to you." he laughed weakly and walked towards Sherlock. "Are you alright?" he asked his flatmate as he continued to stare out the window.

"I'm sorry John." Sherlock said quietly, his eyes still set on the buildings outside. John stood next to Sherlock and looked at what ever it was the consulting detective was staring at. John sighed and dropped his head to stare at his feet.

"You don't have to apol-" John started before he was cut off by Sherlock.

"Yes I do. I hurt you John." Sherlock turned in the opposite direction of his friend. "I hurt you and I'm sorry I didn't tell you that I was actually alive. I thought it would be better like that. If you didn't know." For the first time since Sherlock had entered the living room, he turned to look at John. "I missed-" Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. That look John had seen downstairs was back. A look of sadness. "I missed you John. And I couldn't stand being away from you." Sherlock walked closer to John. He looked down at the doctor and laughed gently. "I don't know how I thought I could have lived without you in my life." Sherlock told John, a look of surprise appearing on John's face. Sherlock never showed any emotions, especially those of caring. Sherlock was not a man to care for others, not since John had known him.

The consulting detective took one final stride towards the ex army doctor and locked his lips with his. There was a strong taste of alcohol and cigarettes in John's mouth, but Sherlock didn't care. He smiled into the kiss. It was something he had wanted to do for a very long time, but he never had the courage. John was the first person to ever bring out any sort of feelings in him and the thought of never seeing John again was unbearable. That was his original plan, to leave John and not to return. He would be safer that way. But then his feelings became to strong. He wanted John more than ever. And now here he was, finally after so long, kissing the an of his dreams. What more could he want?


End file.
